Cliché
by high.fiving.jesus
Summary: When you dig deep enough into the bag of clichés, you can find a type of treasure called originality. Uniqueness, if you will. So, we just drop our hands in and pull the first we can touch. Let's see what we get...
1. Chapter 1

**When you dig deep enough into the bag of clichés, you can find a type of treasure called originality. Uniqueness, if you will. So, we just drop our hands in and pull the first we can touch.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or Percy Jackson. Actually, I don't own anything.**

**Clichés**

_**-Spin the Bottle-**_

Annabeth tapped her fingernails on the baby blue table cloth, pressing her back against the foldable chair. She sat forward for a moment to pull up the cosmic latte strapless dress she had been forced into. She scratched behind her curly, messed up bun with her clawed, bejeweled nails. She threw herself back and watched the bride and groom laughing and just enjoying themselves.

She picked up her fork discretely and scratched it across her napkin, finding herself having trouble just sitting still. She glanced over at her best friend dryly and he returned the look.

Percy tugged at the bottom of his tie awkwardly, staring at the blotchy design with some form of loathing. He squirmed in his seat subconsciously and his foot met the leg of the table, sending a metallic _thud_ echoing through the yard. He pursed his lips and slumped further into his chair, wavering under the pressure of a few irked glances.

Annabeth covered a smirk and twiddled her thumbs. She tried to sit perfectly still, just as a good girl should do, but the way the day seemed to drag on made such a task prove difficult. She picked up her crystal wine glass and sipped the sparkling, bittersweet drink, glancing around as she did so. In a moment, her glass was empty and she laid it on its side, Percy watching her, amused.

She leaned back and returned her attention to the spotlight couple, as a school girl would when keeping something under wraps, trying for discretion. "Spin it."

Percy casted a sideways glance, wondering if he had heard her correctly. Her face held its similar emotion of guilty pleasure and so he did as told, spinning the glass. It spun around quickly at first, travelling around on the table cloth until the open end landed on the bride's mother.

"Imagine kissing that," she teased, holding back laughter. The woman had a natural turkey neck and electric blue eye shadow, wrinkles caked with makeup. Her hair was a bush of ash white and she was garbed in motley, a multitude of colors holding to her body. Percy furrowed his brow, confused at what she was talking about.

Annabeth leaned forward and gave her own twist to the wine glass, anxiously leaning back. Percy studied the glass until it slowed, inching around in the spot, until it landed on the groom's brother-in-law. He had short-trimmed blonde hair and deep brown eyes that made Percy's lip curl.

Annabeth smiled to herself and felt a small blush creep into her cheeks, to which Percy responded with a glare in the man's direction. It was upon an unfortunate mishap that Annabeth had noticed and he knew he would never hear the end of it.

Percy twirled the glass across the table cloth and cast an obnoxious and almost comfortable smirk, which she took with a meager smile.

They continued with their immature game, the glass pointing them towards different relatives and friends of all sizes, colors, and genders. Giggles were exchanged, pointed and knowing looks passed. Annabeth had even dared to nudge his rib cage and pop her brow at a young girl who even she had to admit was beautiful. Percy, however, hadn't taken high notice of her, only giving a small smile.

The newlyweds began their spotlight dance, so absorbed in each other; it was hard to imagine them as teenagers back at Camp Half-Blood, ready to kill in order to survive. It was a harsh nature that thrived in both of them, sometimes towards each other, that the two best friends had found it amusing.

Annabeth gave the wine glass one last spin and leaned back, laughing out loud, not really caring for who saw her. Lively music had ruptured the quaint silence that had hung in the air and a majority of the crowd was swaying, trying to remain composed while maintaining the fun atmosphere. A difficult task, though Annabeth had taken it with joy.

She smiled up at the sky for a moment and Percy couldn't help but stop himself mid-stare just to admire her. She was near glowing, laughing lightly, and Percy had a feeling that she shouldn't have downed the wine with such abandon, but he honestly hadn't minded at all. She was spontaneous and cheerful and it was so out of bounds for her.

Then the wine glass just happened to land, open ended on him.

_**-Truth or Dare-**_

He stood on top of the hill, looking down towards the camp fire that was smoldering, ashes and sparks leaping to the ground in a blend of majesty and chaos. Smoke sizzled and drifted up into the night air, strong and off-key voices echoing aloud with the guitarist. A cheerful mood had been underlined with layers upon layers of contentment and peace as the Titan War had just drawn to an end. Or so he had been told. It hadn't taken her long to describe such a sighting, but every word seemed to draw him in deeper.

The hero and his prize—that witty blonde—were off in New York, doing only what the gods knew. He had a feeling that it was nothing too special; they were more into making each other laugh than blush. With the two demigods gone, though, camp had strangely gone silent, void of monster attacks and psychotic kids whom planned on poisoning trees in their free time, because—hey, what better use was there for toxins?

He clumsily dropped to the ground and leaned forward on his knees, watching the campers all singing along. His eyes drifted across a girl with long dirty-blonde hair and a perfectly white smile and he soon found himself pushing his dark curly hair out of his eyes as his face fell under the power of a blush. He glanced around him, paranoid that some wandering soul had noticed it.

His eyes, though expecting nothing, came to a boy near his age and height, with the same curly brown hair and quirked eyebrows, a smirk gracing his elfish face. "Cute."

"Shut up," he mumbled, turning back to the crowd. The boy cockily joined him on the ground, assuming the position his brother had taken up.

An eerie silence that they had never known came between them, but neither made an eager attempt to change it in a chance of ruining the peace between them. Of course, Connor decided that risks were meant to be taken. "You know what they're doing?"

Travis turned to his twin, brows disappearing behind the dark locks. "What?"

Connor nodded down towards the crowd that had suddenly grown quite as the big horse-man spoke to them, his hunters bow slung over his shoulder. Smiles were exchanged and a roar of applause broke out from a crowd of girls, the fire bursting to life for that moment. He recognized the cabin; Drew and her posse of misfits crying out with excitement. Connor grinned at them. "Truth or dare."

Travis' eyes drifted to Katie Gardner, the dirty-blonde beauty with the green thumb and the white smile, and she was slumping down just the slightest in her seat, her face irked and set to put up an aggressive argument. He snorted and shook his head.

"I already have some ideas for the game," he nodded, turning his attention to his brother fully. Travis looked over at him again, waiting for more because he honestly had nothing to say about it. He himself could come up with so much that he thought himself ridiculous at some schemes.

"Like…"

"I don't know," he shrugged, laying back in the grass and staring at the stars. "But… something better than they can come up with."

"You don't even know _what_ they came up with," Travis tried reasoning, still watching the girl he loved to annoy and adored. She became frustrated easily when things weren't her way or better—which was considered impossible when compared to her standards—and it was so endearing that he just couldn't help himself. His brother, however, just enjoys making her mad.

"Truth or dare," Connor asked, glancing down at his brother, whom seemed absorbed in whatever was immensely interesting at the campfire. Travis turned to look him full on questioningly. "Yeah, you heard me. Truth or dare?"

Travis studied him wearily, lying on his back in the tall and very, _very_ itchy grass with every intention of hiding a smirk that only mirrored his own. He looked down at the grass thoughtfully. He knew full well that his brother could never come up with a good or even mildly interesting and entertaining question to ask him. So he naturally chose to be dared.

"I dare you to lick Thalia's tree," Connor grinned wickedly, pleased with the instant, yet pitiful, attempt of an embarrassing dare. There was so much worse he could do.

Travis raised an eyebrow and turned around to the group of fellow campers of various ages, a majority younger than the two brothers. It was odd, thinking of himself as a leader, someone that the younger kids looked up to. He and his brother had definitely earned their title of legendary in the Hermes cabin, along with their brother Luke, and they both held the name well. They had even taught some younger campers, who were gracious for the skills and wisdom of their eldest siblings.

Connor sat up and scooted to his brother's side, involuntarily staining his jeans a sickly shade of green. He looked out into a crowd of Athenian girls and smirked, elbowing his brother. Their cousin on the mortal side was staring intently up at them, shaking her head like she had expected better. Connor didn't understand why she was pleasantly disappointed—for a smile had become hers—because they were doing nothing out of the ordinary, but he stuck his tongue out at her, just to tick her off.

He knew it was hard to do as she instantly returned the gesture, and then finished with a wide smile.

Her eyes shot over to a camper in the Ares cabin and her eyes bugged a smidge as he asked her which she preferred. "Probably truth," Connor snorted.

The fire dimmed a little as she gave her answer. Definitely a truthful young girl had landed amongst the rambunctious kids of the gods.

"Told you," he said, smiling proudly. Travis shoved him and leaned forward, anxious to try and here the question.

"Do you have a crush on anyone?" Connor grumbled, lowering his voice. Travis cracked a grin and he could see their cousin giving an answer, and a hot blush burned in her cheeks. Maybe Connor was right. "Their questions are always lame."

"You come up with one better," Travis challenged. He looked at his brother pointedly, his mouth open to a grin and his curls balancing out his wild features.

"Easy," Connor retorted. He returned to the pressed down grass, leveling it even more, and placed his hands behind his head. "Have you ever seen the Batmobile? Have you ever burned an ant with a magnifying glass?" He rolled off the questions casually enough and then sat up on his elbows and stared his smiling brother in the eyes, keeping the tone level. "Is it true you snuck into Katie's cabin last night?"

The smile was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**As one pointed out, yes these are more—ah, well-written clichés, but hey. I'll take what I can get. Sorry for taking so stinking long to update, but I'm so stupid. It's midterms, I started a bunch of multi-chapters at the same time, and now everyone's demanding I update faster. I have this chaotic lifestyle in which I have little writing time. My apologies, or condolences; whichever you prefer.**

**Blah, I want strawberries right now… **

**Anyways, if you have something you see a lot and want me to write out something "well-written" for it, let me know. I love suggestions.**

**This is one that's been popping up a lot.**

**Clichés**

_**-Karaoke-**_

It should be known, for all the world to hear and understand—and to hopefully take into consideration—that Nico Di Angelo was anything far from a singer. He didn't carry a tune; he could not, for the life of him, hold a note. He was not one to stand on a stage, to pick up a microphone, to sing for a sea of expectant listeners. Nico just didn't _do_ the whole 'singing' shin-dig.

And even now, at the impeccable age of twenty, he refused. He had been to his share of parties with the Olympians; he had kept a close eye on every musical soul still belting out notes that were perfect, but he himself would never even dare.

And then she came. No, Nico was not one to stalk a poor girl. To be perfectly honest, they had met in their sophomore year of high school and were what some would call tight. They could talk about anything, and they did. Up into all hours of the night he would sit on her window sill and just listen, because he had found it impossible to squeeze in a word once she was going. One leg in, one out. Half ready to fall, and the other restraining himself.

"Nico," she murmured one night, after a tragedy. Her boyfriend of two years had decided that their relationship was nothing serious, nothing worthwhile. And he had promptly ended everything they had. "Nico, promise me something."

He nodded in means for her to continue, because it just seemed the thing to do. He didn't know how to associate properly with girls that could potentially break down, but he found some corner of his mind forcing him to stay by her and just listen.

"Just," she paused and quirked up the corner of her mouth as she did when she was thinking. "Promise you'll stay. I kinda need a best friend right now."

Nico took those words and mixed them and jumbled them and confused himself thoroughly with them. What did she mean by 'stay'? Stay the night? Stay forever by her side? Stay…? He nodded.

He watched her dim blue eyes swarming with some need to be approved and cared for. Hades, if he knew any better, she just needed a distraction. How could a boy like him make a girl like her smile?

And he did. He managed, because by the gods, if he could just leave his best friend sitting alone after she was near to crumbling in the wind, then he deserved Tartarus, filled with the nastiest monsters. His crooked smile trapped the frown that was casually comfortable on his face and he started a quiet hum, just a small gesture, but it got her going. She seemed to recognize whatever madness he was mumbling and laughed, wiping one tear that decided was well-suited on her face.

"Hakuna Matata," she murmured and leaned back in the rolling chair at her desk. "No worries."

"Yeah," he mused, still attempting to carry the tune. "No worries."

"Nico," she told him, using her feet to roll over to him. "You're a quiet kid, you know that?"

"Or you just talk too much."

She gave him a mild look of offense and shoved his shoulder, scoffing and blubbering on about how she did not talk profusely, because if she did people might think her a loon. Nico merely raised a brow with amusement and pressed his back against the sill. She rolled across her floor and stood from the chair, leaving it close to the proximity of where it belonged.

"Jay," he interrupted, almost sorry that he had stopped her rant. "Chill out."

She stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, her wavy raven hair slipping into her face, and then reached out for his arm. She pulled him through the rest of the window slowly until he was standing mere inches over her, looking down into her eyes and he nearly fainted. She was cute in high school, but now she was seriously beautiful and it dug a hole through him. He wasn't… good with living organisms. Give him a skeleton to play with and call him cheeky.

"Why do you do that?" she asked compellingly.

"What?" he forced himself to not step away from her and seem like he was going away, as he had promised, he near swore—as his nodding meant so much—that he wouldn't leave.

"Sit one leg in, one out," she informed blankly, as if it were the oddest thing she had ever encountered. "Why don't you ever come in?"

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, as if the position had never struck him odd. Yet in reality he knew it was some very weird symbolism that kept him sane, kept him restrained, kept him calm around her. He was only half there, not ready for the all in that she had just forced him into. "The window's comfortable."

She laughed. Her laugh wasn't a cute twinkle laugh like most girls tried to pass as a comic relief. She laughed loudly, even allowing a snort to escape once and she soon covered her mouth, stifling her giggles. "That was _so_ embarrassing."

Nico shrugged. He wouldn't say it wasn't a bit much, some can't help it. If he were honest it was cute. He mentally clamped a hand over his mouth, relieved that the words never came into reality. They were only supposed to be the best of friends. There was no heated romance, he decided, only a wild friendship.

A moment of silence before she quickly wrapped her arms around his midsection and dug her head into his chest. His reaction time was slow, as he was taken back by her sudden move. But he soon realized that he had done _something_ that was a reminder, a painful one, and he could feel her eyes closed like it would stop any perspiration problems she seemed to be facing.

And then, as his arms held her awkwardly, the door to her bedroom received a quiet knock and was promptly opened to reveal the two very wide-eyed young adults. An aging man, Jay's father, stood open-mouthed and fuming.

"Jessica Nicole," he seethed.

"Hakuna Matata," Nico mumbled, mortified, before giving her a quick squeeze and heading back for the window.

Oh how he handled the adults so smoothly. Perhaps he should sing to them, too.

**Eh. Not really anything about karaoke, more of a romantical make-me-feel-better story that happened to be that he cheered her up with his horrible song. But I still liked this one. Don't know, I just like Nico.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Only for **_**bookluva98**_** would I break a HIATUS before I'm ready. But they suggested and I, obviously, accepted. Oh, but it's a supposedly romantic cliché—And dang it, I'm not quite sure I'm up for romance right now. Let's see where this goes.**

**Oh! Dark… can be very dark.**

**Clichés**

_**-Leaving the Hunt-**_

You don't join a life-long-and-beyond, all-girls band of hunters when you plan on breaking your sacred oath for some… some _boy_. You just don't; this must be burned into all memories. When you join, you know that those _boys_, ones like him, will let you down, or will break your heart. Somehow they'll hurt you. That's why you join; that's why you leave. Because you want to be free from what every teenage girl seems to always go through, at least once in their lives.

Thalia didn't see the oath like that.

It was a family that was so closely-knitted, held together with twine compared to the dental floss of other families. You can be honest, free of terrible responsibilities that control the fate of the world, away from idiots like Percy Jackson. Gods, he's so… dumb.

But the hidden reason: she had already been broken. Maybe no one had noticed, but that _boy_, the one that was gone from the world, had taken her heart without the slightest attempt, held it in his two strong hands, and tore it right before her very eyes, grinning satisfactorily.

She had joined because he had been able to look down at the hard outer coating of steel and see the soft thumping under the shell, and crack the protective layer without hardly thinking anything significant of it.

Wind rustled through her spiked hair, raven locks bristling around her eyes that were being tortured by the sight in front of her. A heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, tear-lulling sight of a broken figure. He held the bed sheets in his hands awkwardly, staring up at her with empty eyes, a knot already formed in the fabric creating a lasso.

"Leo," she breathed. Down below her the glow of orange streetlights flickered in the alley by the motel. Cars rumbled past them, the engine choking. She could faintly hear yells, glass breaking, cats garbling piercing mews; an everyday Vegas hood. "Leo, what are you doing?"

His eyes roamed down to what he held in his hands and then trailed back to the girl in the tall window-frame with uncertain fear, with defiance and malicious thoughts to whatever had driven him there. The hangman's noose slipped from his grasp and he crumbled to the ground, hugging his shoulders so tightly, shutters violently coursing through his body.

And then he began sobbing.

xxx

She cursed at him. "Leo, _what happened_?"

"Nothing," he murmured into the pillow, his arms curled under it, fists flexing and relaxing again. Shivers still surged through his body at a rate of only every few seconds. He buried his face deeper, feeling himself breaking into sobs again. His voice quivered as he waved her away from him. He didn't need or want her help.

She stood over him, hands fisted on her hips, the deliberate look of determination and intimidation flushing her cheeks. She had never seen someone so vulnerable and open and willing to break everything they had. Friends? She knew he had Piper since the last time she had been near Camp Half-Blood. And family? Every one of his siblings cared for him so much.

The girlfriend situation was still being modified slowly between him and the Roman daughter of Minerva.

"Leo," she swore louder than before, stepping closer to the disgusting motel mattress. "Tell me _now_."

He tossed to his side to stare at her, eyes bloodshot and exhausted. Purple bags had visibly formed under his heavy eyes and he seemed to have not gotten a wink of sleep in ages. The desperate visage made him appear mature, more knowledgeable of the dark that hung in the world of betweens. He seemed to understand that he would never find the peaceful bliss of full mortality and that whatever bad happened, it was more likely his fault than the mortals'.

"It was my fault," he admitted, his voice coming off with the sound of a crumpled paper bag. He coughed and fell to his back, running his palms over his eyes. Thalia began her inquiry but he cut her off, shielding his eyes from her judgmental ones. "I killed my mom, you know."

Thalia felt her skin go clammy.

"Because I can control fire," he added with a bitter laugh. "I killed her when she was in the shop. We were about to leave and I caught the place on fire."

"Leo," Thalia broke in, her judgment forgetting her. "That's not really your fault."

"Don't you dare," he hissed with sudden venom, leaning on his elbows and glowering at her. "Don't you _dare_ tell me that wasn't my fault. I know when I've made a mistake, and I can't count a twentieth of them on both hands, so don't tell me that was purely innocent, raw power exposing itself."

She studied his face silently, wondering what had really pushed him over the edge. He had been living with this guilt for near four years with the thought it was his demigodly fault, and much more with that he was a mutant freak, and she somehow knew that he didn't—couldn't—suddenly want to end himself in a form of repentance.

Leo's eyes rolled to the back of his head as he muttered something, groaning and breathing curses. And then his slip. The blame belonged to _her_.

"What was that?"

Leo pursed his lips. "What?"

"That," Thalia fingered the circlet in her hair gently, agitated motions of the need to burn someone to the very center of their worthless soul. "You said someone's name, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't," he pressed forcefully, sitting up on the exposed mattress and running his finger along the creases.

"That chick made you… like this?" Thalia seethed, her fingers sparking with the blue electricity that curled around her hands. She fisted her hair and nearly yanked it out in attempts to end the brewing of a terribly dangerous storm on necessary allies.

And all defenses seemed to fall to the ground and crumble in the wind at a gust of air through the curtains. "Minerva likes to know how to take people down," he murmured. His face fell, dark brown curls gripping his forehead bitterly. "That's what she had warned me about. That she analyzed and destroyed, but I didn't think she meant…"

"And you blame yourself?" Thalia gritted her teeth.

"I have to," he confided. "I was the only other person there."

She eyed him and slowly sat across from him on the mattress, leaning forward on her fists and studying him. The healthy silver glow flickered around her, and her narrowed eyes made him subconsciously flinch. "Valdez, is that the only reason?"

He hesitated, glancing at the floor beside the bed and drummed his fingers on his knees. "She was…ah, cheating on me. But it was mostly my mom. I mean, can you imagine that?" He looked to her with pleading eyes. "Imagine the only person you've ever known, the greatest person dying by your own hand. Imagine someone you love and they're suddenly gone… all because you're a freak that got mad."

"Leo, if we're going by that," she told him factually, "I used to think that about Jason. I always knew I was different and I just assumed that he was gone because of that, because I hated my mom. You can't blame yourself."

His eyes flickered in the dark of the motel. "I always do. Just at different times."

Silence.

"Are you mad that you two broke up?"

He reluctantly nodded.

"Why?"

"Because no matter what, I always fall in love with pretty girls." He blushed absentmindedly.

Thalia pondered this thought for only a moment and she met his eyes. "Did you think you ever loved me?" Maybe she didn't care, but she sure as Hades' wanted badly to be beautiful to someone aside from the boy that had broken her.

He met her eyes and found himself nodding against every fiber of his being.

Thalia breathed deeply.

xxx

"My lady?" she looked to the goddess, thoroughly confused, and fiddled with an arrow that's feathers had been burned along the fringed ends.

"I renounce your oath and honorably release you," Artemis repeated, watching her lieutenant solemnly. Her eyes were a cold brown puddle amongst the glow of beauty and health. Thalia could feel her limbs weaken, her heart's pace picking up in a necessary attempt to stay alive with the effort of a regular mortal. The circlet in her hair faded from around her head and she felt compelled to take a power nap.

"Thank you—"

"Do not show me any gratitude other than I granted you life," Artemis ordered, unable to keep calm. She had loved her lieutenant and felt her heart grow heavy with the ache of her leaving.

"Yes, my lady," Thalia bowed her head, feeling the pain she had wanted. The way she could feel her family being torn from her shamefully, by her own doing. The hurt and the guilt and the tug in her gut to take it all back, knowing she couldn't. She would never find her sisters again and she lavished the hurt.

"If this is for a boy," Artemis told her stiffly, only to be cut off.

"No, my lady," Thalia told her curtly. "I… I wanted this."

She dug her hand into her pocket quietly and fingered the folded cloth that was scrunched up tightly, the fabric moving to the will of her. A simple tear of sheet was all she had been able to hold to. All she could find to resemble her dear friend was what she had left him in, knowing that she hadn't changed anything in his heart.

When they had found him, Thalia was careful to avoid everyone. She could feel nothing but her own betrayal. If she had stayed, if she hadn't rushed off to find her patron, things might have been different. If she had been strong enough to shamefully give her immortal life for him and nurtured his wounded heart, the world would have been a different place.

Because somewhere there would be a Leo Valdez.

But now, all she could do was bear his burden of losing what she cared about.

**A/N: I love Leo, but it had to be done. So, a recap: she didn't leave for love, but her own retribution for completely ditching the amazing idiot. It's late and I'm not particularly proud of my wording, but I liked the plot so it will suffice.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Look ****back one chapter**** because I updated it and I actually really like that one better than any other by far. Just thought I should tell you.**

**Clichés**

_**-Child of Percabeth-**_

The couch in their living room wasn't comfortable.

The only thing she could think about, amidst the screaming and confusion and chaos and bitterness was that their couch, soft black leather, wasn't comfortable. It easily heated up via the light fixture hanging over head, and it had odd lumps from temper tantrums where she used to slam her fists and kick at the cushions, and it slid across the floor with little effort, silently.

There were memories on the couch; the day her mother explained that this person living with them, the guy she had grown with, wasn't her father—not her real one, anyway. The day she had her first kiss with the boy from school, the feeling of his lower lip between hers, and his warm breath on hers—she had been his best friend for nearly five years when he _finally_ made his move, and gods she was nervous, but it all fell together perfectly and it was peaceful; he promised to never leave her, that he'd be the one to save her from the drunk that he thought was her father, but she knew better. The day her stepfather came too close, so terribly close, and had scared her senseless until she kicked him in his soft spot and scrambled away without a second to think about what had happened.

She resented her father—whoever he was—for that reason. If he'd had the guts, if he'd been around to stop their being wed, if he'd just shown up to save her. If he had been the man she had dreamed of, she'd be okay and her mother would be happy and their life would be easy. Why did he not have the courage to stay and marry her? Had her birth scared her father off?

To Hades with him…

The couch felt cold now. The chain on the light was swinging. There was silence in the apartment. She glanced up; where had they gone? Fear broke into her core and held her soul in two strong arms and crushed her. Her parents, her mother, they had left the apartment. Why had they left the apartment?

She stood quietly, glanced around the apartment, found herself amidst the nothing and embracing it if only for a moment. Now she had found the silence and it was difficult to breathe. She was used to the yelling, to the fighting, the threatening each other. Her mother often pulled a knife but her stepdad looked upon it with amusement, like it wasn't gleaming bronze sharpened painfully, but a twig nestled between her fingers.

She didn't like when her home was quiet.

She fled the apartment, held her chest as she ran making the venture awkward but it held in the warmth. The elevator, though convenient, was too slow. She slipped down the stairs, skipped steps, tripped, stumbled, glided on the landing and ran. Her legs didn't seem to move fast enough, but the world around her was caught in a fast-forward motion of _go_ rather than the expected _slow_. Images blurred, faces obscured, heart pounding in her ears.

She knocked tourists to the side, slammed into some rather good looking boys, tripped a man absorbed in the conversation on his phone, all moving without an apology or concerned question (one boy, however, gave an interested eyebrow-raise and small smile).

She tumbled out into the middle of the street and—_there_.

There was the most out of place, the most awkward, the most unbelievable couple, middle of the street. She fisted his shirt like she really, _really_ wanted to knock his front teeth out—she was gonna deck him, Tasha was sure of it. She pulled at her sides, hoping they would close in—out of _horror_, because that man wasn't good like her imaginary father. The feeling only developed more negate when she kissed him. Her mother, the one who clung to all that was sane, kissing the most heinous man of all creation.

The weird thing was… there was a third to that party.

One with eyes green as the sea and hair sprayed with the color of the night, one grey streak like her mom's.

And she noticed the tears in the corner of her mom's eyes, the broken expression of said stranger.

But neither moved. Neither breathed. Neither loved.

_Why_?

**I **_**was**_** going to do one of those epic scenes where Annabeth and stepdad get into a fight; he gets a good one on her, and suddenly in swoops Percy. Then I was like—no, **_**way**_** too predictable. So then I got to thinking, okay fine. Percy can be the only guy on the street, the one Annabeth kisses—but it would be too perfect.**

**Then I broke this line of thinking altogether and was going for Tasha being the tough girl at camp, doesn't talk about Percy and Annabeth as her parents, only as legends she's heard of. Then some boy knows her linage and she gets all defensive and tells him that she's the adopted scum they picked up off the sidewalk and she guts him… but that's too harsh.**

**So this wasn't original, but it was decent so I'm going to live with it. For now.**


	5. Chapter 5

**I figured I might as well give you something since I haven't updated in a while. Like, any of my stories. I did delete some not-worth-while ones, but I never **_**updated**_**. So… here.**

**Clichés**

_**-Becoming a God-**_

It wasn't _too_ big of a deal.

This getting married business.

Sure, the wedding was kind of awkward, each standing bare if not for their bathing suits and shorts to supply some form of cover, the big man eyeballing them like he wasn't too sure this was all legal. But they had proven they were of age, and they gripped the legal documents in their hands, beaming up at him. The crippled boy was hiding out in the corner as witness to the ceremony—the groom's mother was absolutely scatter-brained when she found out and realized she hadn't been invited. So he rolled his eyes and excused himself.

Then of course they had to hail a taxi cab back to the beach while she babbled about how he had chosen to propose—over a hamburger, spur of the moment, at a little restaurant on the shore line, the straw to her shake still placed between her two lips carelessly. She didn't think it was very well thought out, but this was her longtime boyfriend, and that was how he worked. And she liked the utter normalcy of it, rather than the glam and fuss that normal guys made over an engagement. Huge, gaudy diamond rings that weighed more than their dates probably did.

He had a child of Hephaestus forge a silver band—no rock seared into the center, no ostentatious saying. Just the slip of metal, which he gave to her two weeks _after_ the wedding. And then he had to take it back to resize it, which only annoyed the kid and caused him to take even longer to work on it.

But he still didn't complain.

Especially on the night when they decided it was time to cross the boundary lines they had set.

She was careful, still trying to resist because just thinking about that made her blush furiously and avoid him for days at a time. And he had never really pushed until that night after she had spent her day up on Olympus and he was immensely bored with hanging out with Nico and his new girlfriend. They weren't exactly novelists when it came to making out in front of him, despite his constant protests. And he couldn't stand to have that mental image—he needed something new to occupy his mind.

Besides, he wanted her. He _loved_ this girl, for gods' sakes.

He held her gingerly, thinking that she felt even more fragile than ever, kissed her carefully and was none too quick at throwing her on the bed. Really, she did that more than he did. She could feel the terror emanating from the small of his back, and he from the way she trembled. Her whole cage of skin prickled and shivered.

The next morning he played with her hair, watched her sleep, until she came around and curled up into his side to release the muted tears. He couldn't be sure why she was crying, but he didn't want to ask. That was something she wanted to deal with personally.

Seriously, though, she had nothing to worry about. Except he suddenly found that he couldn't keep his hands off of her for weeks after, to which she just laughed.

And he didn't feel all too crushed by the responsibility of parenthood.

In fact, he almost enjoyed it. No, he loved it. Every second he could spend with those little devil children—really, he's their father; it's physically _impossible_ for them to just sit down and behave, even if for a minimal of three minutes (no, seriously, he timed it)—he did. He came home, scooped them up in his arms and spun them around, planting a kiss on each forehead. Then they'd crowd on the couch and watch the television or play video games, leaving Annabeth to come to a mess of a home, no dinner on the stove, and three kids zonked out on the sofa—he was included in that census.

Parenthood was more of a hassle for her and a game for him, but he never skipped a beat, taking their daughter to dance or walking their 'little man' across the street to his Tiny Tigers Taekwondo class.

Then school hit like a rush of furious wind, whipped him into shape and he was suddenly into buying shot guns. Really, those boys needed to keep their hands _off_ and his son needed to be readily trained on how to act and treat anyone the way his father does.

Yes, he thought. If this was what it felt like to be a god, he'd take it on again and again.

And again.

**Ah, I bet you thought he was—or maybe even she was—going to become an immortal. But no. This takes on the more everlasting, parental aspect of godhood and places it into the mortal atmosphere of home. So, yeah. I guess that's it for this one.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Pretty much inspired by the lovely **_**StarlitReader **_**who has made her own parody of those horrendous, overused, rather OOC Speak Now song fics and managed to keep it edible and delicious for mine eyes to feast upon. (By the way, it's called ****Operation Hold Your Peace**** so I would check it out if you haven't already.) I'll probably fail in the ways they haven't, been I'm thinking this is a little more of a deep-thought than a serious he's-marrying-the-wrong-girl dilemma.**

**Clichés**

_**-Speak Now/Hold Your Piece-**_

It's the stark white flash of generally everything that's consuming her body. The dapples and streaks of colors smearing the canvas are in poor contrast with the utter _white_ of the whole scene. It's definitely consumed her line of vision. She can't think, process, feel anything but white. White noise, white lights, dresses, pain. A white numbness that's coursing through her already stained veins.

Her face is slathered with the perfectly tan cream and the lip stain her mother swore would make her eyes pop vigorously. Caked on mascara makes her better able to hide the gloss that's frosting her eyes, dead and brown. Why is she never good enough?

She's got this thought conjured up that maybe, just maybe if she gets up the courage and gusto that his bride has (anything's possible, right?) to stand and say what she feels must be said, then he'll realize that she's the one for him. He's always liked the strong type. That's all it would take. She'd prove herself. Being the jewel people have told her she is, the rare and exotic beauty, with the steel backbone of the… problem child, then he'd see her fit.

He'd just _have_ to choose her.

It was the 'logical choice'.

Isn't that what Annabeth used to say?

So she's got it all figured out. Sitting amongst dozens, maybe even hundreds, of not-technically-invited-but-still-welcomed guests she's got this idea that's struck her suddenly with the might of all the forces, divine and not, in the world. It's going to work. She's run through the words that would have to tumble from her lips at least a million times and these lines still run rampant through her mind, forcing her to be able to not even think as she speaks, utters the words that would save him from the other girl undoubtedly.

The march (is it _supposed_ to sound like that?) picks up and rings through her ears. It's no wonder that she's surprised to turn her head and realize the bride's already taken half of the aisle in her easy stride, that she had entered possibly two minutes ago.

_Breathe_.

She glances up and notices that in her mute stupor they've already joined their hands, are grinning like complete idiots and turning to face the old catalyst to the disaster wedding this was sure to turn into. And he talks.

Something about unity. Something about holy matrimony. People around her are chipper with whispers and obnoxious chatter, complimenting that beast that's standing at the altar in her strapless, white-lace bodied, ridiculously long-trailed dress. It's almost monstrous because she's wishing that was _her_ dress.

The flowers gripped in her Maid of Honor's hands are pouring down, cascading with rich and raw and real beauty. Of course, the eye roll and restrained gag that's obviously just emerged from Thalia's mouth don't go unnoticed. Annabeth has to reach over and backhand her shoulder for good measure, to which the two get into an almost silent bicker. The expansion of time only allows her nerves to gather up, pile in her chest even more than before. Like a wave, she's anxious.

Percy just rolls his eyes and steps around the two so they've formed a triangle and now all are emerged in this comical situation where the guests can only watch with bemusement riddled on their lips. This is the signal of a happy, comfortable marriage. Crap.

He's beautiful. The way he moves, fluid—actually, he's a little bit awkward and that's what let's her know he's real—in how he waves his arms between the two. The preacher has cleared his throat and is glancing between the crowd of onlookers and the three slightly peeved, on-edge arguers. They break the formation and move back to where they previously had been placed.

She's toying with her thumbs, scouring the crowd for one of her cabin mates, one of her friends who can give her some sort of confidence boost but she falls short. She has no one to stand beside her in her test of courage and strength.

She's thinking about all the times she's been let down, torn away from everything that held her affections. She's really not a bad person. Or, at least, she wasn't. The day her boyfriend, the one who had held her hand just to play with her fingers and used to leave her stranded to play ball with the boys and would tell her she was lucky to have someone like him and would kiss her just because he could, the day he dumped her kind of crushed her idea of love. So, you can play with someone and make them feel like they've got it all, then tear them down. If not, then they should know they've wasted their time. How else would they know they truly loved you until they realize how much they hurt when you're gone?

Or the day her father, that lovely man, told her that her mom had left because of her birth. A little rough around the edges, but it fixed her up with the idea that if you hold something good too long, it has to be dropped or else it'll be torn away. A twisted way to avoid pain, but it's worked for her so far.

It's come. The time to speak up, to say everything she's practiced.

The preacher pops that stupid question and she rises to the challenge, her legs shaking violently. Gods, she's nervous.

She's surprised to find another figure in the crowd matching her own posture. Poised to strike and say something. The other girl, red hair frizzed with ringlets, meets Percy's eyes and holds them. It pains her to see a sort of regret evident, like he really had feelings for Rachel, but they just didn't match those that he has for Annabeth. They continue to stare each other down until Rachel breaks the connection by rounding out of her seat in the third pew and striding outside with her head high, like she knows she's really doing the right thing.

Percy looks a little lost when he finds her own gaze, to which she lowers her chin ever-so-slightly to give him this intense stare (or what she hopes is intense). She's having that flash of lessons learned and pain that would be caused. Not just to Annabeth, but to herself. She wants him so bad, feels like this wedding is so wrong, and that's what stops her. They (being Annabeth and Percy) will eventually tear each other apart.

And if not, she knows she would let him go again in the blink of an eye if she really is happy with him.

She stutters out something that's meant to be encouraging and slowly finds her seat again.

Drew doesn't attend the celebratory feast later at camp, or wish them the best. She holds her tongue and feels like maybe if she had spoken up then there wouldn't be a burning, torturous pain simmering in her chest.

**Ahhhh, I don't like this one. At all. Bleh.**


	7. Chapter 7

**I'll be honest, this is more of a publicity stunt for a few (just a few, because I have many more that I couldn't seem to fit) of my favorite authors or my favorite stories. So go check out these guys/gals if you think they're interesting. I'm only going to use snippets and such (I don't think you'd enjoy reading something that's over 20 pages long). **

**It's not my best, but don't hate me. I only had a few hours to get permission, put this together, and publish. And copying took a lot of time.**

**Oh, shout out to ****StarlitReader****, ****FoalyWinsForever****, and ****SuzieQluvsU****! I've asked for permission from all of them and they didn't seem to mind. They might when they read this one chapter… but I might make up for it later.**

**Clichés**

_**-Discovering FanFiction-**_

These days, things like this just… didn't happen.

Well, to be honest, this had never happened as far as any of the campers were concerned. They were _heroes_, for the gods' sakes, saviors of the world. They had risked their lives with death-defying stunts that usually had their mothers—and a select few fathers—in hysterics. They swung swords around as casually as an heiress went shopping in the most expensive stores in existence. They… well, they also did normal teenage stuff and worried about how to escape punishments for doing the wrong thing.

Like Travis and Connor Stoll were currently doing. From the slim chance that they had mocked some poetry in rather severe manners. Like, say… dressing up as women and parading around the camp screaming out limericks and haikus left and right that they had stolen from Apollo's more, ah, sensitive campers. And when said campers had gotten a hold of the brother's necks, Chiron was blessed with the difficult task of separating them.

And then the whole situation, of course, was explained in full to the centaur, to which the Stoll's earned a stern look.

"Boys," Chiron crossed his arms like a peeved mother would do. If truth be told, he felt as if this camp had been demoted from demigods to delinquents in less than a week. Because really, the war had just come to an end and the Hermes cabin was back to acting out.

The pair began sputtering their reasoning, begging for understanding. They were shouting over each other and tossing blame for whose idea it was and that they weren't the only people involved.

"It's not that bad, Chiron."

"Everyone _else_ thought it was funny."

"Not my fault they don't have a sense of humor…"

The last one had a little blond girl lunging wildly, trying to sever Connor's head from the rest of his body.

Another squirmish between the three resulted in Chiron gripping both Travis and Connor's wrists in his rigid grasp, the little girl being restrained by her older siblings.

"Enough!" Chiron's eyes had gone from disappointed to absolutely livid, his whole form stiff with disbelief at the boys' childish antics. "I have had _enough_ of this. Now you will both apologize _this instant_ or by the gods I will have to go to Tartarus for the punishment I am about to inflict."

They stared defiantly at the Apollo campers, eyebrows lowered in a hard line, their jaws set stubbornly. With a quick side glance to the other, they crossed their arms and mumbled under their breath.

"_Boys_."

"We're _sorry_," Travis forced through gritted teeth and let his arms hang limply at his sides.

Chiron relaxed his posture, seeming to recollect his easygoing essence. "There," he turned to the Apollo campers, about to shoo them off to archery with the absolute certainty that shooting things would ease their rage when Connor piped in.

"Yeah, we're sorry you've got your dad's dry humor."

"AHHH!" the little girl latched onto Connor's back with a firm arm wrapped around his neck, her free hand smacking him on the top of his head; she continued screaming and growling in rage. Travis, about to run to his brothers side—who was making a mad grab at his neck and wincing every time she smacked him—was pulled back by the older boy who had been restraining his young sister and soon landed a solid punch to his jaw. Travis held his cheek with minor disbelief etched onto his mischievous face.

"It wasn't that bad!" he tried, knowing that they had been wrong but also believing firmly that the prank wasn't their worst.

By now, Connor's face had turned to that of a ripe strawberry and he was on all fours gasping for air. Grabbing her arms, Chiron pried her off and swung her onto his back where she couldn't escape him without his knowledge.

So, yeah. Maybe the prank wasn't their nicest or smartest. And they probably shouldn't have continued taunting Apollo's children. And maybe, just maybe they could have laid off of turning every form of punishment into a joy ride (like washing dishes at dinner time, fighting for the cleanest looking spoon to sterilize, where they soon flooded the sink and lava started to eat away at the now ruined counters. Or cleaning the stables which resulted in both of them covered in horse manure and grinning, trying to give their friends in the Aphrodite cabin hugs.)

Now the whole camp decidedly hated their guts, having to face the punishment along with them, save the victims of their original prank.

Something about appreciation for the Apollo kids' wonderful writing styles and creative poetry.

It was something the gods had created a while back, just to see how the mortals could amuse them. It started out fabulously, wonderful fictions based on other authors' works, each as intriguing and beautifully put together as the last. Then, at the turn of the century, after a major glitch in the system, the work—years of sweat and blood—was wiped away. Destroyed. Multiple authors had made a comeback and tried to restock the shelves of the gods, but it was slowly failing. The website had become overrun by fan girls and Mary Sues to a point of bringing even Ares to tears whenever he even cast the website a sparing glance.

And now the campers had become fully aware of the gods' pain. Reading fiction after fiction, they flinched or refreshed the roaming page of their category (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, to which Clarisse sneered) all wishing they could understand their intentions—why would anyone write something so… so horrendous? Annabeth had even fingered her dagger upon reading a fiction that involved her and Percy going way beyond any boundaries she had really hoped to maintain. She quickly flamed that (yes, Chiron had them make a profile and she only commented on the OOCness of it all) and backed out of the webpage, her breathing a little awkward. It wasn't necessarily bad—the story was written with…fascinating detail—but she could hardly think past the mental images that were now clouding her mind.

Then the new assignment.

"Write something."

He looked serious. That was the scary part.

"It can be fictional," he promised. "Or go off of personal experience."

Connor had grumbled something about there being no point to this at all, and Chiron's reply was a rant on how writing something and putting it on display was difficult. That campers shouldn't have laughed just because Connor and Travis knew how to make the writing look pathetic. That Connor and Travis should have taken time to admire the Apollo campers' courage and ability.

Snickers.

"And if you _don't_ participate, then you can take your chances sleeping in tents outside of the boundaries." Every head snapped to the irritated Mr. D standing in front of a building that hadn't been there before. They were all standing in the pavilion enduring this chat when he made his same sudden entrance, only now he had brought a shack. It was really just a box of concrete that didn't look like it could hold anything more than ten or twenty people if they were crammed together. However, stepping inside they found rows and rows of computers all with blank screens. At least two hundred monitors were set up.

"If you don't write something worthwhile, I may turn you into a dolphin."

It was hard imagining Dionysus getting excited over reading but it seemed like this had been his entertainment in a rather boring time period. Apparently the website used to be an escape to a lot of gods and goddesses after the Big Three took that stupid oath that ultimately failed. The trio was moody and snapped at a majority of the crowd, and so they were either soothed with high praises written by mortals (not in the PJO category, seeing as it didn't exist at the time) or the others could forget what was happening around them. Dionysus was no exception.

What were they to do other than sit at those (insert select curse) computers and write something that would ease the two camp leaders?

Chris, once he really got started on typing, seemed to be okay with the assignment. Others would pick up on his habits. He'd sit typing furiously, occasionally facing the wrath of spell-check—he was still dyslexic, so of course he'd have to stare at the words before deciphering how he was supposed to spell that one—and then he'd pause. His eyes would flutter closed and his fingers would remain poised on the keys, his breathing heavier and slower than it had been. He'd remain frozen in his own frame of time like he was either thinking rather deeply or trying to forget whatever he had just typed.

_I never meant to be a traitor._

_I'm not saying I wasn't one, because I may have been. Betrayal is subjective. I'm just saying that it was never my intent._

Clarisse backed up from his monitor, understanding what exactly he was writing about. And she somehow knew that it wasn't going to take one sit down, to write about. He would be up and out and then come and sit right back in that spinning chair and type. She muttered under her breath something that strangely resembled 'wuss', even if she really didn't mean it, and then stared at her screen.

Chris' eyes snapped open and he picked up typing out what he needed to say.

"_Are you here to train or not?"_

He glanced at his girlfriend in his peripherals and gave a small grin.

Percy however was having a harder time. He didn't really want anyone else to know that it was his story that he was writing out. He didn't really feel like allowing others inside his mind. So he was taking on a different point of view than his own.

He really was clever, despite what others thought.

And really, this story was more of a dream he'd had one night. No, a nightmare. It kept him from sleeping for nights on end but he had brushed it off.

"Okay," he mumbled, eyes squeezed closed. "How to start?"

"_Xiang," Percy called over the wind rushing in his ear, "You can't do that! Get back over here __now__!"_

_The little boy laughed happily,__ holding on to the side of an attic window with one hand. He stood lightly on the gutter at the very top of the Big House, leaning forward as if he was about to fly._

_"Why? I don't want to. I wanna __jump__!" the young son of Poseidon yelled gleefully. His face was split into a wide grin that was missing a few teeth._

_Percy's heart beat wildly in his chest. How could he have let this happen? He should have done something before his brother's problem got out of hand. It wasn't… __natural__ for any child of Poseidon to be comfortable with heights, let alone want to fly._

_But Xiang was different from Poseidon's other children, apparently. Ever since the six year-old had come to Camp Half-Blood after his mother's death, he'd been fascinated with __flying__. When he wasn't chattering about how happy he was that Daddy claimed him, he was talking about birds and airplanes and other things that belonged in Zeus's domain. And then there had been that terrifying stunt with the Pegasus—Xiang had jumped off and free-fallen towards the ground from hundreds of feet up. If Guido hadn't caught up to him at the last second, the boy would have been killed._

_Percy'd tried going to Chiron, and even talking to Poseidon. He tried explaining to his brother that being up high was dangerous, and that Uncle Zeus would get angry. That when you fell, you died. But Xiang had simply looked up at him with that adorably frustrating, innocent expression and said, "But I __want__ to."_

_And now Percy was half-slipping on the shingles of the Big House, ready to fling himself down at a moment's notice to stop his little brother from jumping off the roof._

_"Xiang. If you come over here, we can go play with the Pegasi later. We can see Guido, and Blackjack…" The desperation in his voice was barely concealed as he tried to coax his brother from the ledge. "Or we can do this the hard way, and you won't get to see them for a month."_

_Campers were starting to gather at the base of the house…_

Percy's eyes snapped open and he scanned the page.

He tried to dismiss the story and spared a glance at Annabeth who was staring with the utmost look of admiration at her screen.

"Go away, Seaweed Brain." He shook his head but looked back at his own screen, still shaken by how vividly he remembered the nighttime vision. He picked up from where he had left off.

Annabeth was grinning on the outside but inside she was hardly breathing, reliving that sort of guilt. Sure, she felt like she had mastered the writing style, though she would make sure to have the Apollo kid that had talked Rachel through her story check hers. She was acutely aware that Rachel's eyes seemed to have spaced and they were glassy but she was too used to the nature of the Oracle to worry.

"_But you'll be killed," you whisper furiously, wishing that you could scream it at him, but you'll both be caught if you talk too loudly._ _You can't believe he's doing this. This idiot, this complete and utter Seaweed Brain is going to sacrifice himself to save you. You know he'll lie and say that he'll be fine, that he'll find a way out, when both of you know perfectly well that he won't be fine._

_He's going to die._

_You've both been in this situation before, many more times than you care to remember. But the odds have never been this bleak. There's no escape. At least, not for him. Your survival instinct is nearly overcoming you, telling you to flee, and you know that it's going to win._

_Both of your faces are flushed from the heat of the volcano. A bead of sweat runs into your eye, and you blink it away._

_"I'll be fine. Besides, we've got no choice." His voice is shaking, but you can tell he's trying to hide it. He's scared. You've seen the look enough times to know._

_You memorize the way he looks, because you know you're not going to see him again after this, and your stomach drops. Under that messy, sweat-soaked hair, his green eyes are bright, too bright, and determined. You can tell from the stubborn set of his mouth that he's not going to let you stay and fight._

_He wants you to live more than he values his own life._

_And suddenly, another instinct overcomes you, and your lips collide with his. It's nothing more than a peck, but your heart aches anyway. You realize something: you don't want him to die. You knew this before, of course. Wasn't that the point of this whole argument? But now it really hits you. If he dies—and you know he will—you'll be devastated. Because you might kinda sorta like your best friend more than you should._

Annabeth took a slow, shaky breath and glanced at her best friend—now boyfriend—with some sort of admiration. His scream echoed through her ears, loud and full of agony. She would be sure to make the gods understand this—he was tortured more than her to make sure they could fulfill that stupid promise to a stupid god. She winced when the scream hit her full force and she shoved it out of her mind.

Rachel relaxed in her seat and studied the page. She was used to her prophetic powers, but she had never been able to look it over or really admire how poetic the Oracle's nature was. Well, until now.

And what she had written made her incredibly uncomfortable. Especially after reading a… uh, racy story about Percy and Annabeth. She figured that if someone else had clicked on that story, then read a story they knew was by the all seeing Oracle, two and two would come together and make the answer of _hello, Percy and Annabeth are getting it on_ and that would open a whole new can of worms. One that she couldn't afford to pull back the lid on. She pursed her lips and dipped into her creation.

_From a distance, Jason and Piper watched Percy Jackson and Annabeth. Annabeth was lying prone and unconscious on a cot in the infirmary, her chest rising and falling slowly. Percy was sitting in a chair next to the bed, his eyes were closed and shoulders tensed, and he was muttering under his breath in both English and Ancient Greek. He had one of her hands clasped in his two and leaned his forehead against them. The accident had happened the day before in the attack._

_Lycaon and his beasts— along with a host monsters— had launched an attack on the Legion camp about a week after the Greek demigods had arrived. It was obvious that the Giants had ordered the attack, but the target was unclear at first. The battle was fierce, and replaying it in his mind, Jason became aware of just how close and in synch Annabeth and Percy. The two fought shoulder to shoulder, facing different directions. They anticipated each others next step and moved with an accord that comes from years of training with a person you completely trust. Jason had heard Percy yell "Duck!" and without hesitation, Annabeth had crouched under his wide swing that took out all enemies for 360 degrees. And a second later, they were back to hacking and slashing without breaking rhythm._

_Then, there was a deadly silence. Percy was standing face to face with Lycaon himself. Jason was too preoccupied with monsters to hear the actual conversation between the two, but he did hear Lycaon's call of ceasefire. The monsters that were still alive slowly retreated behind their master and then slipped away into the darkness of the forest. Lycaon stood facing Percy, who had his sword brandished. Annabeth was right next to him with knife in hand. Lycaon had an evil sneer on his face as he taunted the hero, smiling like he had won a great victory. Annabeth was glancing around nervously like she didn't believe the fight was over. And sure enough, Lycaon said he would __leave his little friend to do the work__, and disappeared with a flash. The cry that came from Annabeth was something Jason would never forget._

_Now, looking back, Jason realized that the small bug that had appeared after Lycaon was a scorpion had crawled out of the ground behind Percy and leaped with the intention of driving its stinger into the hero. What confused Jason was the fact that Annabeth had— at the exact moment the bug leaped at her boyfriend— squashed it in her hand and fallen to the ground. As she fell, she dropped the scorpion and sliced it with her knife. A moment later, Percy was on the ground hunched over Annabeth, shouting her name._

_Maybe four seconds had passed and Annabeth looked deathly pale with the exception of her hand, which was oozing yellow and green. Jason and Piper had rushed over to help, but Percy was yelling for Chiron. The centaur was at his side in a moment, frantically retrieving medical supplies from his saddle bag._

_"Chiron, you can heal her, can't you?" Percy pleaded, not taking his eyes off of Annabeth's face. The rising and falling of her chest was almost nonexistent._

_Chiron worked quickly. "The poison is deadly, but we have caught it early enough. Do you remember—"_

_"Pit scorpion. Yeah, I remember." Percy said with a dark look._

_The camp had become a crowd around the prone daughter of Athena. When Chiron said it was time to move her, the crowd had parted as Percy carried her limp body in his arms, but what was most frightening was the pure rage in his eyes and the hard set of his mouth. No one said a word._

_That night, there had been an emergency war council with the Camp Half-Blood members (save for Annabeth) and the leaders of the Legion Camp. Percy had to be all but dragged from Annabeth's side, but Chiron said it was of the utmost importance that he be present. They had decided that as soon as Annabeth was well, they would set sail for Greece. Lupa had insisted that this was too much of a delay, but Percy was adamant that he would not leave her. There were some angry shouts from some of the Legion campers, but Jason had quieted them. "We need her," he insisted. "She's the best strategist and we'll need all the cooperation we can get." Most of the people just grumbled, but shut up nonetheless. Percy shot a silent __thank you__ to Jason, who nodded in return. The council broke and Percy returned to where he wanted to be most._

_At present—the day after the invasion— Annabeth was slowly but steadily recovering, though she had yet to become conscious. Piper and Jason looked on at Percy's constant vigil, since they both had a free period in their training schedule. They had tried to talk to Percy about the reason for the attack, but he had winced and said it was the same reason as always._

_"It doesn't make any sense," Piper insisted, once she and Jason were in private. "Send in an attack force, retreat, and then try to assassinate Percy— who by the way is invincible?"_

_Jason couldn't quite figure out the theatrics of it, but he remembered what Chiron said at the council meeting regarding Percy's situation. Jason shook his head and replied, "He's not invincible. He bears the curse of Achilles, which means he's only __mostly__ invincible."_

_Piper took a second to digest this. "So he has a weak spot then. But no one knows where it is. Do you think that bug could have sniffed it out?"_

_Jason nodded. "That's what makes the most sense. But why miss out on the opportunity to kill us all? We know Percy is one of the seven, and if they do too, why try to kill only him?"_

_"Maybe…" Piper said, "maybe they were trying to get rid of the peacekeepers. Like, with Percy out of the way, the other Romans wouldn't trust us?"_

_Jason considered this. "That's a possibility. We should tell Chiron and Lupa." Piper looked back at Percy, as did Jason. They studied him for a minute, each wondering what would have happened if the bug had been successful._

_"It's a good move," Piper said suddenly. "Getting something that could find his one, mortal vulnerability. It's too bad for them that bug missed his Achilles Heel."_

_Jason was silent for a moment. He gazed at Percy who had the look of someone who had just realized what he could have lost. The pain in his face was undeniable and it made Jason feel cold all over. Finally, Jason looked Piper dead in the eye and said quietly, "I'm starting to think it didn't miss."_

Connor grinned stupidly next to his brother, both jumping whenever an idea hit them only for them to lean forward and write it out victoriously. Neither Chiron nor Mr. D realized that this was just the opportunity they needed to pick on people.

Their story wasn't near as serious or heart-breaking as their friends', but they definitely used serious situations to their advantage, twisting it to an almost humorous form.

Only, if you thought about it, you could see how they had taken real life occurrences and made it something of a joke.

"_Holy Zeus," muttered Pollux._

"_I'm just guessing," said Connor, "that there's no food here."_

_Everyone stared at him._

"_What?"_

Connor hurried through the filler section, not really caring how many spelling and grammatical mistakes he was making, and typed out Percy's name with his brother's approval.

"Okay," Travis raised an eyebrow. "He's gonna take a dare."

"But what's it gonna be?"

Travis grinned wickedly.

_Drink the water._

"_Drink…? Oh."_

_A glass of murky black liquid had appeared. At the same time, the light formed numbers—10, 9, 8…_

_Nico gasped. "That's __not__—"_

_"Yeah, it is," Percy said with a grimace. "Water from the Styx." He glanced up at the light. 4, 3…_

"You're a jerk."

"Thanks," Travis smiled. He picked up his typing and tried to think up what Percy would feel, despite lack of personal experience.

_"Uh, Percy?" came Travis's voice. "It might be best if you __didn't__ break the cup." Percy heard a sharp __smack__, and then a resentful "Just saying…"_

"Connor! You had someone hit me?"

"You deserved it…"

"…I'm gonna hurt you now."

Chris had been put on hold from typing, fully aware of Clarisse standing over him and reading exactly what he was feeling as he thought and wrote and lived through the insanity of the Labyrinth.

"_I believe her exact words were 'Nobody pulverizes Rodriguez but me'."_

Clarisse hesitated, having read that line aloud and decided it was probably her favorite of her boyfriend's work in progress.

Chris glanced at her. "Can I just finish the story and _then_ let you read it?" He felt like that may have deserved a punch in the shoulder, and he anticipated it, but it never came. She just slumped in her chair that was facing him and she crossed her arms, both brows raised.

"Well?" she asked. "What are you staring at, Rodriguez? Finish the stupid thing."

He resisted an eye roll and gave her a grin before looking upon his monitor. He scrolled down through the over-forty-pages and found the blank space that had yet to be filled with words that he still remembered as perfectly as if she had just said them.

"_Are you a traitor?" Clarisse asked bluntly. "Because I've been beating up anyone who said you were, so I'd really hate to have been doing that for nothing." It was amazing how such an innocuous sentence, coming from her, could carry such a wince-worthy threat._

_"It's kind of complicated. But, uh, I appreciate that. I think," I added after a moment of thought._

_"You better. Now tell me before I kill you."_

_"Um, Clarisse," Chiron said carefully, "The boy __did__ just wake up from a week-long coma. Maybe you should..."_

_"I'd rather get it out of the way." And it was true. I had a feeling that I was sort of in shock right now, and that in half an hour it would all hit me and I'd break down in tears or something. I told the story as fast as I could, plowing tonelessly through the nasty parts without letting myself think about it. It took longer than I had expected, even though I edited out almost all of the details, since most of them were basically the specifics of my nightmares and I didn't really think the two of them needed to know what those were. Chiron looked increasingly sympathetic and I could tell he knew I was glossing over a significant part of my misadventure, but Clarisse's face was blank. I still couldn't meet her eyes._

_Chiron patted my shoulder. "I realize that there isn't much I can say to help, but in my subjective opinion, you acted admirably. Any hero would have done the same." I bit my lip and kept my eyes downcast, remembering my disastrous Kelli-related decisions and spectacular lapse in judgment at Antaeus' arena, but kept quiet. Chiron clopped from the room without another word._

_I glanced up hesitantly, wondering whether I was about to get my neck broken or not. Clarisse was staring after Chiron. Before I could look away, her eyes snapped back down to me._

_"You're an idiot, Rodriguez," she finally said. "But you're not a traitor."_

_"Thanks," I replied as wryly as I could manage, trying not to show the enormous rush of relief her pronouncement brought._

_"Anytime. I'll get a newb to grab some of your clothes; you look like a hospital patient. Oh, and most of my cabin is going to try to kill you. Good luck." She grinned sardonically and left before I could say anything else._

"You know," she whispered from right beside him which scared the crap out of him. He gritted his teeth and glanced at her as she read over the new part. "You have to tell me the whole story now."

"What the Hades. Clarisse, you're gonna read the whole freakin' thing. Can't you wait?" He honestly doubted that she could. She was the most impatient, self-pleasing, B.A. girlfriend he could've asked for. How did he get so unlucky that he would fall for the one girl that could beat him up? This was the gods pulling his leg again, but he didn't really mind.

"No, Rodriguez, I can't," she grumbled. "And if you _do_ keep me waiting, I'll have to beat your face in."

"Whatever," he muttered, typing from the cliffhanger he had absentmindedly created.

When everyone had completed their assignments, some stuck with the website. They would check E-Mail accounts that had to be created in order to be a member of the online hotspot for story alerts or they would write what they had recently experienced. Some even wrote out fantasies in the purest of forms to keep themselves occupied. Updates from them weren't frequent but they were so real and raw that mortals and immortals were drawn continuously to the godlike skill they demonstrated in relaying their lives to others.

Of course, they did take detours on quests to find the location of Mary Sues in order to kill them. But everything else brought an improvement—well, everything in general brought an improvement to their moods.

**Holy crap that was long. And bad. Aside from the italics, I think this was generally the worst one. It's hard to come up with something original, so I shied away from trying to think too far out of the box and really just made this different. People generally only talk about the bad fictions and leave out all the good. So I brought it back through this chapter.**

_**Verge**_** by ****FoalyWinsForever**

_**The Boy Who Wanted to Fly**_** by ****StarlitReader**

_**Echoes **_**by ****StarlitReader**

_**Achilles Heel**_** by ****SuzieQluvsU**

_**The Ultimate Truth or Dare Challenge**_** by ****StarlitReader**

_**Verge**_** by ****FoalyWinsForever**

**Check these people out. It's worth it.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Does anyone remember this story? I do, and I think about continuing it often when I'm looking for stories in the fandom.**

**What really bothers me about this cliché the most is how improbable it really is. I mean, Percy admitted that he can't sing so how would he be some big superstar other than as portrayed here…?**

**Anyway, this story is no longer how original I can make a cliché, but rather how well I can write it.**

* * *

**Here it is.**

**Quote: **_"I don't know you and I want you even more for that. Words fall through me, always fool me and I can't react." _–Once, the Musical

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth**

**Spoilers: N/A**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

**CLICHÉ  
**_Everybody Wants to Be a Rock Star_

"It's just aggravating."

"I think it's pretty freaking hot."

"You're aggravating, too."

"_Me!_ Why am I aggravating?"

"Because you don't appreciate true music. You're too mainstream for your own good."

"You're such a hipster…"

* * *

He's been taking the media's attention by storm, wrapping long black ribbons around simple-minded creatures and making them dance for him, twirl and dip. He's attractive—and extremely so—which is great and all, but there's no substance or quality. There's no variety.

And worst of all is that there's _no talent_.

The man can't even begin to understand the complexities of music theory, such as what makes a double-sharp a double-sharp or how a third compliments a fifth; the circle of fifths is more alien than the extravagantly specific color wheel. Augmented chords really flow through his mind as _impossible_ and a minor second means nothing other than _ew_.

True musical beauty of the modern age is "Bohemian Rhapsody", Five and Dime or even the Civil Wars.

It's honest musical comprehension and natural born talent to combine the elegant styles of opera with the witty spark of rock. It's beautifully crafted when harmonies are constructed to fill the melody, carried over a sweet river of chords and finger-picked notes.

But whatever this is pouring out of my speakers, it's atrocious and hideously overdone. No instruments necessary. Just the man-power of button pushing and he's got a big hit.

News around town is that he's coming to Manhattan, where I'm currently attending college, on some sort of "tour" tomorrow, though I can't for the life of me figure out what exactly he'll do. Sign CDs? He has none. Speak at an Expo? That requires even the minimal intelligence required for delivering compelling speeches. Perform? And how.

No, he's coming to meet girls if anything. Or to compare pointer muscles with the patrons of button-pushing at McDonalds.

Silena suspects that she'll meet him somewhere and pretend to be too above him; he'll be sure to notice her.

I suspect that the façade will drop and she'll be just another adoring fan.

* * *

"He's _here_!" Silena's voice is garbled and strange in my ear as I traverse Times Square, leaving my shift at the Broadway Theater. The thrilling wisps of a strange language ring in my ears mingling with Marimbas and slight flutes whispering in the wind. I feel the rumble in my bones from the climax of the opening song, a great burst of animal calls and manic cheers. Bright, decadent colors swirl around the edges of my vision.

"That's great," I press, my pointer fingering the rough end of cardboard encasing the coffee travel mug. People are hustling around, either moving deftly through the crowd or they are the cause of the crowd, gaping at a flickering sign and dropping their gaze down to their cheap maps. The thrill of Times Square is dead to me, now just a nuisance to survive, growling at pickpockets and shoving past rough-looking beggars. I feel anger rise and boil in my throat as one clump of Asian tourists especially refuses to part even slightly. I nearly drop my coffee and my hair is an obscure mess atop my head.

"You don't get excited for anything."

A flicker of light goes off in the corner of my eye, in the distance just past a gathering of visiting money bags.

I'm supposed to walk with Thalia back to our dorm, though I don't see her patience lasting long enough for me to reach her before she shoves every living thing into the street and takes on the concrete jungle. I myself am having a hard time remembering my manners.

"I do to," I protest sourly and let out a frustrated groan that mingles with the grunt in the back of my throat.

"Then why not now?"

"Because Percy Jackson," I begin throwing out my elbows, breaking into a flicker of lights. A flurry of people is drowning me and I can hardly breathe; aggravation swallows all common courtesy and I'm a whirlwind of curse words in a multitude of languages amongst youthful ears. "Ugh! Because Percy-freaking-Jackson is an untalented, media-hogging stiff who needs to either write something that qualifies as music or pull his head out of the clouds!"

I puff a wisp and straighten my jacket, now in the midst of the flashes. My trek continues.

In fleeting, I latch on to the most beautiful green eyes I've ever encountered, tinkered and tailored with different emotions and higher-level thoughts. They whir with countless words to be said and provide a living sea, wild and aggravated. Deep shades intermingling around a dark opening.

I forget my breath momentarily, unsure of myself; when it returns to me, I suck the sticky air into my lungs and my eyes flutter away, back to the gathering crowd.

I can't shake the feeling of those eyes trailing behind me.

* * *

"I think you hurt his feelings…"

"I didn't even know he was there! He just showed up out of nowhere. Besides, that was _months_ ago."

"Still think he's a, what did you say? An 'untalented, media-hogging stiff'?"

"Yes."

"Mhm, sure. Save that stubborn crap for Silena; I know better."

…

"So, he's picking you up at seven, was it?"

"Shut up."

**Fin.**

**A/N: I'm not gonna lie, this sort of story is fun to write. Maybe not as a serious story but as a little side project. The idea of re-developing and molding the Percabeth relationship from an average person's lifestyle is intriguing. **

**Shaping them from the ground up. It probably won't happen, but there's always a chance for everything.**


	9. Chapter 9

**This might be one that I go back and rewrite but I liked the idea (not necessarily how I wrote it). It didn't actually turn out how I planned but I don't really care right now so…**

* * *

**Quote: **"_Déjà vu is when God thinks something is so funny, that He has to rewind it to show His friends."/"What if déjà vu meant you lost a life and you are starting back off at your last checkpoint." _–Unknown (Both)

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Percabeth (in one way or another)**

**Spoilers: Yes! Oh my gosh, yes. And some ranting.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

**CLICHÉ  
**_I'm a Character and Yeah, I Read the Books_

Up on the make-shift stage, he grins down at the numerous teens, all varying from about ten years to twenty. Maybe even older. A swarm of orange and purple T-shirts, none resembling my black organic T-shirt that reads "Beware my ballpoint pen" with a picture of a white-and-blue pen ironed on. The air is thick with mirth and murmurs, excitement burning through the veins that map out our bodies.

His voice is nothing like I had imagined it would be, but I don't mind. This man, this wonder, he's here standing right in front of me.

Well, he's standing a swarm of people away.

He jokes and smiles, interacts with us with so much enthusiasm that I can't help but admire everything about him.

The door swung open for me, a quiet and content employee manning the door, passing out flyers of upcoming events along with her soothing smile. I folded the paper immediately, nodding to her, and slipped it in my copy of the very first book. I had elbowed my way in, hoping to get a spot up front. When I realized how uncomfortable and tight that would be, I spun on my heel and excused myself awkwardly, pushing through the same people to get to the back wall, that involved stepping up on a dais and standing quite awkwardly amongst the hip coffee-shop-esque chairs and tables, utterly alone.

At least, I hadn't really noticed anyone.

I shift on my feet now, my book folded in my arms, wrapped tightly against my chest, closest to my heart. I toss my hair over my shoulder and wait for him to burn through the Q&A session that's taking place.

Off on the left is a coffee counter, dining tables spread around it strategically.

He and the crowd reminisce on past adventures that we've all taken together, ones that made us all fall in love. They (or rather, we) ask about upcoming novels:

They're _okay_, right? Because we wouldn't like it very much if you just took our ship and blew holes in it, sir. And who's really in the seven? Like, seriously, where did Nico even come from? That makes _eight_; do Percy and Annabeth count as part of the seven anymore? If not, then who's the seventh? And what do Percy and Annabeth get to do, if they're not a part of the prophecy?

But he's as mysterious as ever, only smiling coyly, wrinkles around his eyes, dabs of gray in his hair. He answers some questions—guys, Calypso's gonna reappear (my heart might have stopped because I was begging that she was reserved for Leo and _not_ Percy or Jason; besides, Leo deserves a good girl)—but otherwise tells us, discreetly, that we'll just have to be patient.

I don't acknowledge really anyone else in the room but him until a boy about my age springs up the dais and leans against the wall by my side. He breathes, like it had been impossible before, surrounded by the bevy of die-hards. I try to ignore his presence, feeling immediately uncomfortable by how close he is.

He doesn't seem to notice.

I swallow a sour remark and flip open my book, skimming the words that have been my childhood comfort. It is comic relief instantly and I am momentarily at peace.

Then I realize that he's glancing at me; naturally, I stare at him with high brows and quirked lips.

The next time, we make eye contact and his gaze whips back around to the High King Troll, Lord over the realm of Fiction and Fangirls. I study him, determined to make him equally as uncomfortable.

He's sort of attractive, ruggedly handsome. His dark hair is tousled and unruly, a clump of careless chaos atop his head, falling in his eyes. His skin's evenly tanned, warm and soft. And his eyes, paralyzing and_ familiar_, are a bright sea-green. His gaze indolently finds mine again, trailing from the author to me, and when we meet they smile at me. I feel like I should grip my book tighter, in case he gets the idea to snatch it. Mischievous, I guess, is the best word. He's someone I would avoid; a trouble-maker.

My breath catches in my throat and I nearly yelp. My mouth is dry.

"These things last forever," he tells me, half of his attention, I realize, slipping away and back to the speaker. But he soon loses interest in that and shifts his position leaning against the wall, narrowing his gaze on the shelves of books.

I feel my own body aching to move.

He plays with his bangs, shoves them out of his eyes and tells me that he's been in the shop all morning with his dad—I don't know where he got the idea that I care. His hand swiftly moves the hair out of his eyes and he drops his head back against the wall, his eyes flickering around the ceiling. I glance up but there's nothing to see besides the ceiling tiles.

His lips are forming words, numbers, and I realize he's counting.

At about twenty, he looks at me. Then to my shirt.

"Cute," he says, evidently finding it humorous and not at all cute. My feather's immediately ruffle and I grip my book tighter than before, my knuckles nearly white.

I start to drift off, ignoring this strange, hyperactive boy and pay attention to my liege. I've missed something, I realize, apparent by the throb of thrill trilling through the group, giggles and gasps ringing out, stretching up to tap the ceiling and come at me fiercely. My aggravation with this boy sparks immediately, more powerful than before.

His head swivels back to me and I jump at the sudden movement. We watch each other momentarily before my short outburst:

"Do you have ADHD or something?"

His whole face flames and he looks to the carpeting, stepping on his left foot diffidently. I'm briefly miffed by his lacking response when he clears his throat.

With a nod: "And I'm dyslexic."

I give him a dry smile. I don't want him to see how bewildered I am at the coincidence (as it must be). It appears that he's entirely synced with everyone's favorite Seaweed Brain, but it's not only that. The fact that I suffer similarly from both burns a hole in my mind. I'd been attempting to forget the diagnosis from a month ago, but now it's more prominent than ever.

I feel bitterness toward my rude comment, my inability to stop it, the embarrassment I had caused.

"Me too."

He glances at me, looking not at all impressed by my confession. I realize he must've had these disorders his whole life; it didn't matter as much to him to admit it openly, of course.

"I'm Percy," he watches me, my face completely rigid and bewildered. "Riordan. My dad wrote these books for me when I was younger. It made it easier for me to accept my ADHD and dyslexia, because, you know…" He briefly gestures to the book.

I feel the book slip from my grasp but he catches it swiftly. Standing upright, I realize he's taller than me and utterly adorable, holding the book precariously in both hands, unsure of what to do.

"Is that weird?" He's soft-spoken, now, and hushed under the roar of fans.

"No," I quickly reassure him, gripping the top of the book. "No, it's not that."

"Then what?"

I meet his eyes with half of a smirk dancing across my features. "My name's Annabeth."

I realize with a start that my fingers are brushing his as I lightly retrieve my hardback.

"Annabeth Chapman."

**Fin.**

**Not my best. I don't know why, but today I feel incapable of writing anything properly, which irritates me to no extent.**

**Ugh, my writing skills caught a cold; they should be better by my next chapter of "Operation Restoration". So, hopefully, tomorrow.**


End file.
